


Jealous of Your Cigarette

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: South Park
Genre: Breathplay, Cigarettes, Crush, Friendship, High School, Kissing, M/M, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:32:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they were kids, Clyde and Craig were best friends. At least that's what Clyde always thought. Things are different in high school—or maybe they never were how he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealous of Your Cigarette

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from a Hawksley Workman song of the same name.

When they were kids, Clyde and Craig were best friends. At least that's what Clyde always thought. Maybe they weren't Super Best Friends like Stan and Kyle, but even as a kid Clyde knew hardly anyone in the world is friends with anyone like Stan and Kyle are with each other. He was happy enough with Craig and Token and Jason and Jimmy and Tweek, but mostly with Craig, who he always thought was his best friend a little more than anyone else.

He says this to Craig the next time he sees him, out on the bleachers during lunch period. Not the whole thing, not the part about Stan and Kyle or anyone else, not the part about how he hardly sees Craig anymore. Just the part about how he always thought they were best friends.

Craig laughs when he says this. He's stretched out on his back, one foot up on the bleacher seat he's lying across, the other down to help his balance. He laughs and exhales smoke through his nose and doesn't look at Clyde, who is sitting two rows down and backwards so he's facing Craig.

"Was I wrong?" Clyde asks.

Craig's tongue caresses the cigarette. He doesn't take another drag right away, he just toys with the cigarette. Then he inhales slowly, lets his smoke-saturated breath out just as slowly. "Will you cry if you were?"

No, Clyde wants to say, watching Craig nurse on his cigarette. I don't do that anymore, he wants to say. You would know that about me if you still hung out with me; why don't you know that about me?

That's what Clyde wants to say. What he says instead is, "Do you want me to?"

Craig smokes silently. Clyde stops sipping his Orange Crush because he's almost out of soda and he doesn't want to disrupt the moment by slurp-scraping along the bottom of the cup. He catches himself chewing on the end of the straw and puts the cup down.

"What are you doing next period?" Craig asks.

Clyde can't tell if his eyes are closed or if he's looking at the clouds. "I have English."

"Clyde," Craig says, patience prominent in his voice, cigarette hovering over his parted lips, "what are you doing next period?"

Holding his lower lip between his teeth, Clyde tries to think. "Letting you make me cry?" he guesses.

Craig laughs again. He isn't smiling, though, when he sits up and tells Clyde, "You're gonna come hang out with me."

"Oh," Clyde says

He thinks they're going to stay out on the bleachers, but Craig stands up and stretches. "Come on." He uses the bleacher seats as steps as he goes down. Clyde follows.

He keeps following as Craig walks around the side of the school. It should be easy for Clyde to catch up, just a couple of quick steps and he'd be beside Craig, but he can't seem to make his feet go any faster and Craig doesn't slow down, so Clyde just follows.

They go around one corner and another, and then Craig must see something he likes because he stops and leans back. Clyde leans next to him, shoulder to the wall.

"I would offer you one," Craig says as he taps his pack, takes out a new cigarette and lights up, "but I know you don't smoke."

The relief Clyde feels that Craig still knows something about him, even if it's this one small thing, is enough to make Clyde smile.

"Do you want to try, though?" Craig is holding the cigarette somewhere between offering it out and bringing it to his own mouth; he could go either way, his body language is saying.

"Um," Clyde says.

"Or do you just want to watch me?"

"Uhh," Clyde says, chews on his lip. "Uhm."

"Okay," Craig says, nods like that was an acceptable answer. His lips embrace the end of the cigarette, cheeks hollowing as he sucks on it, drawing the smoke back through the filter and into his mouth, down his throat, into his lungs.

His lips close as he slides the cigarette from between them and holds it off to the side; his lips stay closed as he leans into Clyde now, closed as his lips touch Clyde's, only open when Clyde's mouth opens under his. Clyde opens and Craig breathes into him, exhales and more, pushes: rush of breath and smoke from his lungs, through his very blood, a heady rush, surging through Craig into Clyde, filling Clyde, and Clyde opens his mouth a little wider, tries to draw in more of Craig.

But Craig is drawing away. They look at each other, Clyde wide-eyed and Craig heavy-lidded, Clyde open-mouthed, Craig full of a smile, both of them breathing. Wordlessly, Craig holds the cigarette up to Clyde's lips, slides it between them, eyes fixed on those lips as Clyde takes a shallow drag. Then Craig swaps his mouth for the cigarette, sucks the used and mutated breath from Clyde as if there were nothing sweeter, presses his body against Clyde's and Clyde draws him close as if they could exchange breath through their skin.

They do it again to get it right, again and again, and again some more—inhale, exhale, breathe, rush, spin, breathe, suck, surge, dizzy spinning, and then they have to stop because the cigarette is burned down to the filter and dropped to the ground.

Craig smiles. He puts his smile on Clyde, his mouth on Clyde's, his tongue twining with Clyde's, his breath filling Clyde's mouth. Craig's body presses to his, Craig's hands caressing his skin; Craig's fingers brushing over his cock, over clothing, beneath clothing, opening clothing, fingers coiling and closing around Clyde's cock; the rush slows, turning twisting curving spinning slow and light...

Their mouths part, Craig's smiling and more; and then the smile fades, leaving only more. They look at each other, faces close together, intent gazes connecting them where they don't touch. Clyde doesn't touch Craig, just lets Craig touch him, Craig unreadable except for his fascination, gaze intensified beyond watching, contemplating now, meditating on Clyde's face as he fondles Clyde indulgently, handles him with teasing, tormenting, luxurious strokes.

Clyde's breath shallows more, deepens, can't find regularity, doesn't want it. Craig's thumb rubs Clyde's lips, feels his fluttering breath, traces down along his throat, rests in the hollow, feels Clyde's fluttering pulse. The smile is there again when Craig curls his hand into a fist, then straightens his forefinger at the knuckle joint, keeping the finger itself folded. As his slow, smooth strokes on Clyde's cock continue with greater pressure and speed, as his fist starts closing over Clyde's cockhead, Craig's carefully folded finger strokes back up Clyde's exposed throat. When he reaches the juncture of Clyde's throat and chin, Craig presses gently with the middle joint of his crooked finger, oh so gently pushing up and back, like he's nudging Clyde to look up at him, even though Clyde's already looking.

Craig increases the pressure slowly, so slowly Clyde hardly notices his breath being cut off slowly, time itself slowing. Time doesn't matter, his body doesn't matter, all that matters are Craig's hands, where Craig is touching him; Clyde feels the ease of numbness, the sensation of tingling lips and limbs, floating all over and inside out, heaviness between his legs; all there is, is Craig's hands and numb, tingling, floating heaviness.

It is going too far. Somewhere, in some far away part of himself or outside himself, Clyde knows Craig is going too far, he knows he is letting Craig go too far; too far, and not far enough because all there is now is more and _want_ : no world, no South Park, no Craig, no Clyde, just this, _more_ , beyond rush, the ultimate rush, heavy and light and beyond touch, untouchable almost reachable, _more_ _more_ _more_ , beyond time, beyond and more, going beyond, going gone to get there, and oh! _there_ —

Clyde comes hard.

 

He comes to, sliding down the wall.

Sliding down the wall, head swimming, senses returning as he swims up to consciousness from the thickness, like being underwater; swimming up from the thick, heavy pleasure, breaking the surface with Craig's hands on his face, Craig tilting his face up and Clyde opens his eyes, looks up, looks into Craig's eyes, still unreadable. Then Craig's voice starts to matter again, words dripping from the open smile of his mouth, "Hey, can you feel this?", touching Clyde's face, "Are you all right?"

Breathless, speechless, Clyde blinks, nods at him.

When he gathers himself to stand, Craig says, "Not yet, man," pushes him back and Clyde lets himself slump against the wall. Craig leans on the wall next to Clyde, stroking his hair, watching him with slit open eyes and a slit open smile, and Clyde wants to close his eyes, wants just to breathe, just to feel Craig's fingers, but he can't; he can't look away from the way Craig is looking at him, smiling at him, he can't look away from Craig.


End file.
